


Axe to Break the Ice

by ohmybgosh



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Harringrove for Australia, M/M, Neil is dead, Post Season 3, They make the best team, hot cocoa is good, pizza is good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: Or, Steve is the one to finally bust through Billy’s door
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 44
Kudos: 449
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImNeitherNor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/gifts).



> For Nor, who asked for 1.5k words of Steve pulling Billy out of the dark, but whom I love dearly and deserves ALL THE WORDS so this ended up being much longer. Thank you thank you thank you for the prompt and being a part of this! And thank you for being a beautiful friend and incredible inspiration to me always, I hope you like this <3

The thing about being a deadbeat, college-rejected dumbass, was that Steve ended up having a lot more free time on his hands than he’d ever had before. Sure, there was Family Video, full-time, and then a whole lotta nothin’. 

The nothing could get stifling - especially if he stayed at home, watching his mother make a huge fuss about her nothingness, and avoiding his father like a nervous house cat, who had proclaimed Steve as the deadbeat, rejected dumbass. So he filled the nothing with whatever he could. 

It was funny; in high school he spent so much time avoiding actual work, apart from basketball practice - instead he dicked around with his friends and then devoted every minute he had to Nancy. And then, though he had been accomplishing absolutely nothing apart from sprinting a lot, getting his heart broken, and - he supposed - the minor role he played in saving the town. But now, even though he had a job, he felt that the days passed simultaneously too slow and too fast, and that truly nothing was being accomplished. 

He spent most of his waking hours with Robin, at work and otherwise, getting high and eating too many chips (neither of them could stomach ice cream anymore), driving without a true destination, watching movies with Erica Sinclair and her parents, and often Dustin, and sometimes Lucas which meant Max was there, and if Dustin and Lucas were there a subdued and depressed looking Mike Wheeler came along, sometimes with an even frailer-looking Nancy, too. 

Still, though, with the distractions from work and his best friend who was his age, and his other best friend who was a pre-teen and came with a lot of other pre-teens with emotional baggage, Steve found there was time he was left alone to his thoughts. Time alone did not sit well with him. Thoughts - painful memories, irrational worries, and terrifyingly rational fears - scurried and scampered about his his scrambled, dumbass (thanks, Dad) brain. These were the thoughts that wouldn’t let him sleep, that made him sometimes too afraid to look at the pool, and sometimes so afraid of the jumble in his mind that he’d jump in the water and sit at the bottom for as long as his breath would allow and wonder how much oxygen he could afford to lose to have no thoughts at all. These were the thoughts that made him too terrified to face the shadows of twisted trees at night, the thoughts that made him ask Robin to stay with him when he had the closing shift at Family Video. 

And so he did everything he could to not be by himself. 

Which resulted in finding the one person in Hawkins that seemed to need more attention than Steve, and yet was almost always alone. 

Billy Hargrove, Steve observed, spent most of his time in one place. Locked in his bedroom to keep everyone out. 

The first interaction, one week after Billy came home, was a hot day in early September.

Steve was driving his new car, with Dustin fiddling with the radio in the front seat, Lucas and Erica arguing in the back. They were headed to the quarry, and Dairy Queen if the kids wore Steve down enough. He pulled into the Hargrove-Mayfield driveway and honked the horn once, twice, but no Max. 

“Dustin, go knock,” he said, rolling the window down to air out his car which was starting to fill with the smell of teenage boy, or “nasty nerd stench” according to Erica. 

“Why me? Make Lucas go.” Dustin found a station playing David Bowie and pulled a notepad out from his shorts pocket, scribbling down a quick line _Will the Wise! It’s September 3rd, hot as balls. Ashes to Ashes on the radio, thought of you. Say hi to mom and Eleven and Jonathan too_. Steve’s throat closed up at the sight; Dustin had a big box going of random things he found to send to Will, and had already filled up two small notebooks with daily letters to his friend. 

“Lucas - ” Steve began, turning to glance at the backseat. Lucas yelped as Erica stuck her forefinger in his ear, covered in spit. 

Steve grimaced and unbuckled, “Be back in a minute.”

He knocked on the front door. After a minute, it swung open, and Max’s mother, Susan, he remembered, opened the door, smiling kindly. 

“Hi,” he said. “Is Max here?”

“Oh, right! She mentioned going with her friends, one minute, she’s with her brother. Oh, won’t you come in?” 

Steve, hesitating a moment on the threshold, entered, letting the screen door swing shut behind him. 

“Thirsty?” Susan asked. “I’ve got lemonade, iced tea, water. No?”

She shrugged when Steve politely declined. 

“Max?” Susan called. “Your friends are here.”

Max answered, somewhere down the hallway, sounding tearful. “Mom he’s locked the door again.”

Susan frowned, patted her fluffy hair with nervous, fluttering hands. She had no wedding ring, Steve noticed. 

“I’ll just be a moment, dear. Make yourself at home.” She disappeared down the hall, whispering to Max and then calling, “Billy?”

Steve stood awkwardly, looking around the room. It was clean, but lived in. Plenty of family photos, mostly of Max and Susan, and a few of Billy, but none, Steve couldn’t help but notice, of the late Neil Hargrove. 

Max emerged a few minutes later, teary-eyed, and breezed passed Steve without a word. He heard Susan’s voice, soft and gentle, speaking to a closed door. He followed Max outside, and she said nothing about the incident, though was subdued for most of the day. 

The next time was similar to the first, though in late September, on a cooler night. No Erica this time, but a sulky Mike. Dustin and Lucas were busy trying to get Mike excited about the movie Steve was dropping them off to see, and so he hopped out of the car and headed to the little house on his own. 

Susan answered the door again, less put together than the last time. She offered him a drink, which he politely refused, and said to make himself at home and disappeared to find Max. 

This time, however, their voices were raised. Max sounded desperate and Susan like she was trying to soothe both her daughter and stepson. Steve examined a hand-me-down looking picture of Jesus that hung on the wall, feeling guilty as curiosity got the better of him and he listened in. 

“Billy, just please open the door to say goodbye to your sister, it’d make her feel better - ” Susan, shaky and soft. 

“Open the door! I’m not leaving until you eat something, _goddamit_ \- ” Max, angry, sobbing. 

And then a loud slam, and the shake of a doorframe that made Steve jump, the Jesus on the wall tilt sideways. 

A voice, Billy’s, hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in days, “ _Leave me ALONE!”_

Silence filled the house, heavy and heated. Steve teetered on his tiptoes, glancing nervously at the front door and wondering if he should just step outside and wait?

He heard someone small slump against a closed door, shuddered breaths. And footsteps - Steve stumbled back, thinking he better just wait outside -

Susan appeared, hair wilting, a small frail hand covering her mouth, eyes watery. 

“Oh,” she whimpered, eyes finding Steve, as if remembering he was there. “I’m sorry. It’s just - it’s been so hard for him, after everything he’s been through. And with his father g-gone…”

She faltered, shaky hands coming up to pat her hair. 

She looked up at Steve again, this time her watery eyes widened. “Oh, but - no, I hate to ask - ”

“Should I, um, I can go. I’ll just wait outside - ” Steve began. 

“Maybe you could talk to him?” Susan blurted, at the same time. 

Steve faltered. “Oh - ”

“It’s just, it’s only the two of us. And none of his friends ever come by. And it would mean so much to him, I know you were friends - ”

Steve bit his lip. Friendship was never what they had been, far from it. But Susan was looking up at him, so hopeful.

“I,” _Can’t, shouldn’t,_ he thought. “Yeah, yeah, I mean of course.”

He wanted to kick himself. Susan’s face lit up, though, as if he were an angel bringing word from God, and she fluttered around him (“Oh, thank you, thank you! He’ll be so thrilled, just for a moment, Max hates leaving him she worries so much, she’s just like me, oh _thank you_ , darling”) and he couldn’t say no. 

He slowly walked down the hall (“First door, Max is right there, thank you, truly”), heart pounding for a reason he couldn’t quite decide. 

Max sat on the stained carpet in the hallway, back against a closed door, tears drying on her hardened, hopeless looking face. Steve stood awkwardly above her. She looked up, not even the slightest bit surprised. 

“Mom’s getting desperate,” she said, so quiet, hoarse from shouting, exhausted. “I am too.”

“I’m...sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. 

“No you’re not. You feel bad, everyone does, but you don’t really care. It’s ok,” Max waved him off when he stuttered. “Why should you? Nobody does.”

She looked down at her lap, fresh tears springing to her eyes. 

“But he’s my brother,” she whimpered. “He’s my brother. And I love him, and I’m s-so scared.”

Steve swallowed, a painful lump rising in his throat. He sat down slowly beside Max, leaning his head against the door, which was cracked in places like it’d been slammed against from the outside. 

“What do you want me to do?”

Max shook her head. “Anything. Doesn’t matter. He can hear us, I think. Maybe he has headphones. But he doesn’t listen to music. Not anymore.” 

She picked at a tuft in the stained carpet. “I used to hate how loud it was. Then it was so quiet when he was gone. And now he’s back and it’s _still_ quiet.”

Steve cleared his throat. He felt so stupid, useless, but Max looked devastated beside him, and she was his friend, now. Her poor mother, too. “Hey, Hargrove, um, Billy?”

Max stared at the carpet, twirling the lone tuft between her thin fingers, blinking away tears. The room at their backs remained silent.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, tried again. “Billy, can you hear me? I guess you probably can. I - um, I just wanted to say, hell, I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”

Something creaked from behind the locked door, like a rusty bed frame. 

“Hey, do you still play basketball? You know, I was thinking the other day, I spent so much time playing and practicing in high school, right? And I haven’t picked up a ball since, you know? I mean, it’s just funny, when you think about it. All that time I could’ve been doing my homework. Maybe I would've gotten into college if I did that instead, huh?” Steve was rambling, but Max watched him now, curious, and he didn’t know what else to do so he plowed on. 

“I wish I could change that, all the dumb shit I did in high school. I think about that all the time, what the hell was I doing. But it’s already done, you know? It already happened and now, I don’t know. I can’t change it, and I’m just trying to make things good now.”

Something creaked again, and something padded across the floor behind the door, hesitating. 

Max nudged Steve, and he drew a deep breath and launched back in. 

“My dad thinks I’m an idiot, since I didn’t get into college at all. And now I’m working at the video store, you know, the one downtown? By the arcade? Anyway, it's pretty boring but it’s actually kind of great, and I make money, and it does feel like I’m doing something important. Even though I’m not in school, I dunno. Just feels like I’m doing something with my life, even though my parents say it’s a waste of time and I should reapply in the spring. But I kind of don’t want to.”

Max grabbed Steve’s hand halfway through his rambling, and he stuttered for a moment before plowing on. Someone had slowly sat down, leaned against the other side of the closed door, completely silent. But there. 

Steve couldn’t place why, but he had to go back after that. Perhaps he wanted to help Max and Susan, perhaps he felt bad for Billy, perhaps, and this particular reason nagged him when he lay awake at night unable to sleep, perhaps Steve was lonely. And he knew Billy was lonely, and he needed a task to make him feel less useless. 

He made a habit of coming by on Sundays, because Robin stayed home with her grandmother on Sundays, and Dustin had scheduled time to call Susie on Sundays, and Max mentioned that Susan went grocery shopping on Sunday and had book club down the street, and Max was always invited to Sunday dinner with the Sinclair’s but was too afraid to leave Billy alone to go. So Steve offered to step in. Sunday was a difficult day for him. It wasn’t difficult to come to the conclusion that staying with Billy for two hours on Sunday evening was better than Steve being alone with his thoughts. 

It involved a lot of Steve sitting outside the closed bedroom door, talking to fill the silence. Steve talked about everything; he talked to Billy about work, about Robin, about Dustin and the others, about his parents, about not sleeping, about the thoughts in his mind he was afraid to be alone with, about the upside down and about the summer that still had its hooks in all of them no matter how many days went by. Billy never answered at first, but he did get up from the bed, cautiously cross the room and carefully sit down on the other side of the door, listening. 

One particular Sunday evening, chilly, at the end of November, days away from Thanksgiving, Steve arrived just before Mr. Sinclair in his station wagon, an eager looking Lucas in the front seat, who waved to Steve, and a bored looking Erica in the back, who stuck her tongue out at him. 

Max darted out as Steve’s shoes barely hit the front steps, hurriedly shrugging into a jean jacket that looked far too big for her. 

“He hasn’t eaten dinner yet, but Mom has leftovers for both of you in the fridge!” Max brushed passed him, and he caught a whiff of cologne that clung to the jean jacket, familiar, the scent making his heart skip a beat as for some reason he thought of his gym locker. 

“Oh, and the heat’s acting funny!” Max called over her shoulder. 

“It’s not working?” Steve answered, his breath fogging out in front of him. 

“Just kick the radiator or something, it should come back on!” Max was already climbing into the back seat, slamming the door and waving. 

Sighing, Steve entered the small home. He shivered; the old steam radiator sat silently in the corner of the living room. The thermostat on the wall told him it was 50 degrees inside, yet it felt colder than that, only a notch above the 35, 29 with wind chill, outside in the dimming autumn evening. He fiddled with the thermostat, turning it to 70. The radiator didn’t make a sound. 

“Hm.” Steve’s breath puffed out; he pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. Billy must’ve been freezing. 

He still hadn’t seen him, though Max promised he had been improving, slinking out of his room for a bite to eat, use the bathroom. She said she heard him showering in the wee hours of the morning last week, which apparently was an improvement, as Max hadn’t heard him shower yet, nor could she be certain he brushed his teeth. 

Steve went down the hall, tapping lightly on the closed bedroom door. 

“Billy? It’s me, Max just left. I’m, um, gonna heat up some dinner, you want any?” He paused, there was no response, just a rustling from within. “Gonna see if I can get the heat to work too. Listen, are you warm enough in there? I’m freezing, it feels like my balls are raisins.”

He laughed feebly, leaned his forehead against the door. Nothing, just another whisper of movement, the ghost of a sniffle. 

Steve sighed. He went into the kitchen, shivering, and found a casserole dish in the fridge with a note on top, Susan’s neat little handwriting he’d grown familiar with. _Steve, heat at 350 for 20 minutes! Help yourself to whatever, heat’s been acting funny so call if you need anything. Love, Susan_

He heated up the oven and tossed in the casserole, which looked like some cheesy, potato, broccoli thing. He found a tin of hot cocoa on the counter, and set a pot of water to boil on the stove as well. He was starting to feel like his insides were frosting over. 

He made two cups of hot cocoa while the casserole baked. A mug in each hand, he went back to Billy’s room, tapping the door with his foot. 

“Want some hot cocoa? It’s good.” He took a sip of one, body warming immediately. “No? More for me. Susan made some dinner, it’ll be done in a few minutes.”

No response, just another tiny sniff. 

“Any idea on how to fix the heat? Max said something about the radiator, but I don’t want to make it worse.”

Silence.

Steve let out a breath of frustration. He could feel his face heating up, which was more from anger than the steam rising from the mugs in his hands. 

“Come on, man,” he sighed, nudging the door insistently with his toe. He shouldn’t be getting angry, he should never yell; Susan had told him the doctors said Billy needed patience, kindness and gentility and love. But Steve’s patience had run razor thin. Maybe due to the silence, the feeling like he was talking to a ghost, maybe due to the fact that the house was so damn cold he was starting to lose feeling in his toes. 

“Hey,” he grumbled, cheeks burning. “You’ve gotta come out, this is ridiculous. What, are you gonna stay in there forever? Come on, Billy! Are you even in there? Hey, asshole?”

The lock clicked, and the door swung open. 

Steve stepped back in surprise, hot cocoa splashing his hand, blistering hot. 

Billy looked gaunt, like a dead man come back to life. He was thin, muscle gone and replaced with sharp, bony angles. The tan had faded completely, leaving him pale and ghostly looking. He had a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose, that Steve had never noticed before but now added a little bit of life to his lifeless face. His eyelids were purple, his eyes bloodshot, as though he’d been sleeping too much or too little. And perhaps as if he’d been crying, too. He wore sweatpants that clung to his hips, too large for him, and a baggy sweatshirt with the hood up. Despite this, Steve could see his hair had been cut short, just barely curling around his ear lobes. 

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy growled, voice raw and dry, crackling like dead leaves underfoot. 

Steve got an overwhelming urge to charge at him and pull him into a hug. He didn’t, because that would be weird, and he didn’t want to spill the hot cocoa all over Susan’s floor. 

“Hey,” Steve said breathlessly, blinking rapidly. 

Billy stared at him. 

“I, um,” Steve started. The kitchen timer dinged; Billy flinched. 

“Eat dinner with me,” Steve said. Mugs in hand, he started back into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder as he went. Billy hesitated, a mixture of nervousness and curiosity flashing in his blue eyes. 

Steve set the mugs on the table and turned the oven off. He glanced over his shoulder again; Billy stood at the far end of the living room, watching Steve, hands shoved in his pockets. Steve smiled. He turned back around and found some old oven mitts and pulled the casserole out, serving it onto two plates and turning to set those on the table as well. Billy had edged closer, teetering on his tiptoes by the couch. Steve rummaged around in the drawers, found two forks and set those on the table, before looking up. He jumped. Billy was sitting at the table now, blue eyes wide and unblinking. 

“You scared me,” Steve chuckled, then bit his bottom lip when Billy winced. “Sorry, I meant you were so stealthy. Like a ninja.”

Billy’s lips twitched. 

Satisfied, Steve sat across from him and pulled a plate towards himself, picking up a fork. Billy cautiously followed suit. 

“Maybe,” Steve began, shoving a steaming forkful of casserole into his mouth. It was tasty, and more importantly piping hot. He swallowed thickly. “Maybe, after dinner we can see if we can fix the heat.”

Billy looked down at his plate, gently poking the casserole with the tines of his fork. 

Steve slid a mug of hot cocoa across the table, slowly, a truce. “Sorry I called you an asshole. You’re not, you just act like one sometimes.”

Billy blinked, a corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked, almost smile, as if the muscles in his face couldn’t quite remember how to do it. 

“Drink it,” Steve said, nodding at the cocoa. He grinned. “It’ll warm you up. If we can’t get the heat to work I’ll make more, maybe spice it up a bit. I noticed Susan has some schnapps in the cupboard, you think she’d notice if we sneak a little? Maybe I’ll make more either way.”

Billy made a sound, a soft grunt. He picked up a tiny forkful of casserole and brought it to his lips, pausing. 

“You,” he said hoarsely, frowning at the sound of his own voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You just gotta kick the radiator.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a little part two for you!! AND A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY GIFT! I love you lots friend :)
> 
> Fun fact it’s my personal headcanon that Robin is Polish and Jewish, and Steve was raised Catholic so he has that upbringing to deal with on top of debilitating anxiety! Another fun fact instead of writing, I spent three hours reading about the history of Good Housekeeping for this fic (to see if they actually feature recipes - they do they even have cookbooks - and if it was published before December of 1985 - it was published in May of 1885, so good chance Susan has at least one issue) and that’s how disastrous my writing process is :-)

The month of December brought a contradictory feeling to Hawkins. On the one hand, the shops downtown decorated their windows with twinkling lights and fake snow and poinsettia, the local radio station singing merry holiday songs too early from behind every door, and a fine dusting of white snow coated the town; enough to look like a decent Christmas card but not nearly enough to make people forget how to drive. One the other hand, the winter wind whipped through the leafless trees with reckless abandon, and the air turned sharp and cold and brittle, the kind of air that made your hair freeze if you didn’t let it dry completely. 

It was the kind of chill in the air that made Steve shiver in his fleece pajamas, in front of the more-for-decoration fireplace in his living room, moreso out of guilt for his own comfort than anything else. 

With the winter fast approaching, a decent number of residents could be seen shivering at the gas pumps, filling red cans to get them through another freezing night until their paychecks came, to be siphoned right back up by the oil company. 

Steve’s guilt multiplied tenfold each Sunday. 

The days with Billy had bled out through the week, slowing spreading like warm honey through Steve’s schedule, increasing as Billy ventured out of his room to perch awkwardly on the Hargrove’s couch beside Steve as Steve flickered through TV channels, eventually accompanying Steve on walks around the neighborhood, occasionally popping into the video store to say hello, finally agreeing to random outings to the grocery store for snacks or the local diner for fries or the movie theater - only once, and he had sunk into his chair the whole time, eyes darting nervously in the dark, and it made Steve feel so sick he never suggested it again. Sundays, though, remained their steadfast scheduled time together, and it was always at Billy’s place. 

Which meant, as the days grew shorter and colder, Steve’s guilt twisted painfully every time he stood beside Billy in the Hargrove’s kitchen, shivering in front of the oven as whatever Susan fancied that week from  _ Good Housekeeping  _ baked away. 

It became abundantly clear that, though the radiators were old and likely malfunctioning, the heat never seemed to work because Susan was several months behind on payments. The oil company sent letters, that Steve tried hard not to notice as they piled up on the kitchen table, with angry red words across the envelopes: URGENT, BILL INSIDE.

Steve had a feeling, partially by deduction but mostly from conversations overheard between Max and the others in the backseat of his car, that Neil Hargrove died with a decent amount of debt, which now Susan, a single mother making minimum wage, had inherited. 

Sometime around the start of Hanukkah (Steve helped Robin push aside Keith’s Christmas decorations to hang a few paper menorahs in the shop’s window the day before), Steve arrived at the Hargrove house later than usual. 

He stood uncomfortably on the doorstep, the heavy gas can he swiped from his dad’s garage feeling particularly burdensome with the weight of his guilt. 

The door was unlocked, someone always left it open for him, and Susan and Max were already gone. He normally walked in without announcing himself, as Billy would be waiting. But he shuffled from foot to foot, toes starting to protest at the cold. 

From the front window he could see a faint blue light, the TV, and a shadow passed, pacing - Billy. 

Steve swallowed thickly. He couldn’t just waltz in with the gas can, he decided. Far better to wait on the snow dusted welcome mat like a vampire, and let Billy decide if he’d let Steve and what he’d no doubt call a charity case into his home. 

He knocked. 

Billy opened the door almost immediately, looking oddly worried, and then he frowned as he took Steve in. 

“You’re late, I was - are you - did you, um, set something on fire?”

“Huh?” Steve shook his head, went to smile, then thought better of it. Some subjects were touchy for Billy since the summer. 

“No, it’s gasoline.”

“I know.” Billy’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

Steve thought, briefly, of lying, but before he could even consider it he was babbling. 

“Well I had to fill my car, and I noticed, you know, it’s been cold here, and it's supposed to get below freezing tonight, and so yeah, I just thought…” 

He trailed off, biting his lip. 

Billy glared at him for a long moment, and then, just as Steve predicted: “I don’t need your charity.”

“I know that,” Steve said quickly. “You can pay me back, if you want. I just know you don’t drive, so I thought it might be helpful.”

Billy was still glaring, so Steve continued, “It’s not charity. It’s just - ” Just what? Something you’d do for a friend? More than that, Steve had started to realize, as he worried about Billy more than was probably normal. “A, um, neighborly gesture?”

Billy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and Steve sighed. 

“I’m sorry, ok? You don’t have to take it. Can we just hang out, like normal? I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business. But, dude, it’s freezing out here.” He ended with a hopeful smile, meeting Billy’s startling blue eyes, which were still narrowed to match the grimace on his lips. 

“Let me grab my shoes,” Billy grumbled after a long moment. “Tank’s on the side of the house.” 

Steve sighed a breath of relief when Billy disappeared into the house, returning a minute later, pulling sneakers on and shrugging on his jean jacket. Steve hadn’t looked at him properly since arriving, opting for staring at his feet dejectedly, but now he eyed Billy with more than curiosity. Billy’s hair continued to grow, his curls looking springier and lighter despite the absent sun. His cheeks had filled out a bit, making him less bony and his skin soft; Steve had an odd desire to press his palm against Billy’s cheek. He wore sweatpants, a little too big for him, and a plain t-shirt, with his jacket a little rumpled on his still bony shoulders. 

He followed Billy around the side of the house, and passed the can over when Billy grunted, gesturing for it. Once the can was empty they went quickly back in the house, Steve leaving the can on the doorstep. 

The house was chilly enough that Steve could still see his breath. But after kicking off his shoes and tossing his jacket to the side, Billy fiddled with the thermostat, and second later the radiators rattled, old pipes creaking with glee at the prospect of being used. 

The TV was on the news channel, the volume off, and Billy strode passed, heading for the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge as Steve hurried after him. 

Susan left them her customary note, this time on the freezer door, and Billy swept it aside to pull a pepperoni pizza out, the bargain kind from the gas station. He set the oven to preheat. 

Steve’s heart did a funny thing, seizing up as though it were about to beat out of his throat, when he realized that Billy had waited for him to get dinner started. He had a wild thought, a brief fantasy of Billy pacing the house, worrying about him because Steve was never late. 

“Should be done in twenty,” Billy said, leaning against the counter, bringing Steve back to the present. 

“Ok.” Steve went to his side, a few feet between them. “Feels warmer in here.”

Billy shrugged. 

“What’re you watching?”

“Nothing. Just killing time.”

The oven  _ pinged  _ and Billy put the pizza in, setting the timer and closing the door. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

Steve swallowed, feeling the silence weigh on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Not that he’d ever carried one, but he imagined they were heavy. 

“I’m sorry about the heat,” he said, biting his nails, a nervous habit. “I know it’s none of my business. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“It was,” Billy snapped. 

Steve flinched and Billy sighed, uncrossing his arms to rub his eyes angrily. 

“Sorry,” he said shortly. “When Da- when he died, Susan inherited everything. Which is basically this crappy house with a mortgage, and that old fucking car, and all of his credit card debt. And me.”

He added the last piece of the will and testament with a harsh laugh that sounded like self-loathing. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again, and he wanted to reach out, he didn’t know what for, perhaps pull Billy into a hug, perhaps press his lips to Billy’s until those startling blue eyes stopped looking like they were about to overflow. 

“It’s fine.” Billy looked away. “Thanks.”

Steve nodded, stomach in knots. He felt like apologizing again, but Billy squared his shoulders in a way that meant he was closing himself off from any more of the conversation. 

The timer went off after a too long moment of silence, and Billy pulled out the pizza, fixing them both plates and walking past the kitchen table in favor of the couch. 

He glanced over his shoulder, at Steve who teetered on the balls of his feet, uncertain. 

“Coming?” Billy asked. His brow raised but his expression had softened and his eyes were no longer brimming with tears. 

Steve followed. 

Billy sat and patted the seat beside him, their usual foot of distance between. He sat cross legged, always, trying to make himself as small as possible. Steve followed suit, a foot away and mirroring his posture, for he hated the idea of Billy feeling alone, and had decided he wouldn’t let it happen anymore. 

He flicked through the channels, settling on a rerun of  _ Cheers _ .

They ate in silence, and Billy seemed at ease, sinking back against the couch cushions, smiling a little unsure at Steve every time he met his eyes. Steve realized too late he’d been staring at Billy far too much, and he set his half eaten pizza on the coffee table in front of him, suddenly losing his appetite in favor of nerves. 

He couldn’t help his gaze wandering to Billy’s thigh, which bounced up and down as though he were nervous. It would be so easy to lift his hand and cut like a knife through butter the distance between them, to lay his palm against Billy’s thigh, to let his fingers brush Billy’s knee, perhaps gently bunch Billy’s sweatpants in his grasp to pull himself closer. 

Steve couldn’t find the strength to do it. He flexed his fingers, which tingled, and shoved his hands in his pockets as his palms grew sweaty, certainly not at the room temperature. 

His half eaten, abandoned slice of pepperoni sat on the plate on the coffee table. His stomach turned, not with hunger, and he made a quick decision, ignoring the sweat gathering at his hairline, his pulse thundering which surely was so loud Billy could hear. He reached out his hand and made to pick up the room temperature pizza, and halfway there he changed direction, trying to act casual; but Billy chose that second to shift, making to stand, to stretch with his limbs creaking, and so Steve’s palm instead landed on Billy’s thigh with an awkward lunge. 

He half expected Billy to flinch. Thankfully, he didn’t, but he froze, shoulders tense, and stared down at Steve’s hand on his thigh with wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said breathlessly. “I wasn’t trying to - ”

He cut himself off, shaking his head because he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to do, and feeling stupid and ashamed, he pulled his hand away. 

Billy wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist, and now Steve froze, staring as 

Billy, still wide eyed, pulled Steve’s hand back down to his thigh. He intertwined their fingers together, his hand shaking slightly in Steve’s. Steve took solace in the fact that Billy’s palm seemed to be sweating as much as his. 

“Oh,” Steve breathed, and he knew it sounded dumb but he felt dumbstruck. 

“What?” Billy said, voice hoarse, and for a horrible moment Steve thought it sounded similar to the bruised and unused one that never answered him from behind the bedroom door. 

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and squeezed Billy’s hand. “Actually, no, sorry, I’m in shock or something, I don’t know. I thought it was just me.”

“Not just you.” Billy shook his head. 

A grin broke, unbidden, across Steve’s face. “Well that’s a relief.”

Billy gave him a crooked smile, chin pointed down towards his chest, almost shy, though Steve would not have ever considered Billy Hargrove shy. Then again, a lot had changed. 

“You know,” Billy said after a beat, biting his lip. 

“Hmm?” Steve squeezed his hand again softly, because he liked the way Billy’s shoulders relaxed slightly at his touch. 

“People always talked about you.” Billy wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, focusing on his knees. His cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat. “About you and, um, kissing.”

“Right,” Steve chuckled. It had been funny at first, something that trailed behind him in the hallways of Hawkins High, a rumor to go with royalty, and an unnecessary boost to his already inflated ego. But now, as with the King Steve business, it was all kind of embarrassing. 

Billy’s thumb smoothed a delicate, trembling line down the inside of Steve’s wrist, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He met Steve’s eyes, and it was only for a moment, and then his gaze found Steve’s mouth. 

“Oh,” Steve murmured, and he definitely sounded dumb, but it hit him then. 

He had a brief moment of mulling over something to say, but all that crossed his mind were variations of  _ Why don’t you find out,  _ which was, this time for sure, the  _ dumbest _ thing he could say. 

Instead he squeezed Billy’s hand once more, turned to face him, and brought his other hand to cup the back of Billy’s neck, fingers brushing through Billy’s hair. 

Billy let out a shaky breath, but he squeezed Steve’s hand back, and his lips parted just the tiniest bit. 

Steve kissed him.

His lips were soft, and he tasted like tomato sauce, and his stubble tickled Steve’s jaw, and his breathing was so shaky Steve felt it ghost against his closed eyelashes, but his free hand found Steve’s shirt, grabbing a fistful of fabric and pulling him closer, and he pressed his tongue between Steve’s lips and tasted even better, like pepperoni and maybe basil and oddly apple juice and even the hint of a cigarette from hours before, and Steve felt as though he were drowning in it all. 

After a moment he remembered the necessity to breathe. He pulled away to inhale sharply, but pressed his face into Billy’s neck - pizza and cigarettes and a hint of flowery soap - because he needed to smell him, too, to drink up every sense he could in case Billy pushed him away. 

He didn’t; he loosened his grip on Steve’s shirt and tentatively wrapped his arm around Steve, placing his palm against the small of Steve’s back. 

“That was,” Billy breathed, rattling still as if he couldn’t keep up with it, ruffling Steve’s hair as he sighed. 

Steve lifted his head up to look at him, keeping their hands clasped - it was hard to feel small with someone beside you - and scooting closer so that their knees were pressed, together. 

Fuck it, he thought, and grinning, he asked, “Not all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Nah,” Billy shook his head. “Better.” 


End file.
